


wine red

by amorekay



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Academy Era, Bad Faerghus Dads: the Childhood Story, Basically Marauders Fic, Complicated Relationships, Excessive Faerghus Worldbuilding, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pre-Canon, minor canon characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21802435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorekay/pseuds/amorekay
Summary: His father sends him a letter the second Tuesday of every month. Same address, same farewell, same awful insinuations wrapped up in pleasant cordialities if you didn’t know the man who penned them.Ambrose keeps answering them.After all, he’s the good son of the good Margrave Gautier.
Relationships: (one-sided) Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius/Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd, Ambrose Rene Gautier/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd & Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Margrave Gautier/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Comments: 34
Kudos: 109





	1. prologue: little lion cub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His father sends him a letter the second Tuesday of every month. Same address, same farewell, same awful insinuations wrapped up in pleasant cordialities if you didn’t know the man who penned them.
> 
> Ambrose keeps answering them.
> 
> After all, he’s the good son of the good Margrave Gautier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the thought while playing Sylvain’s paralogue that his father seemed similar to him. I could easily see Sylvain ending up a manipulative, detached, bitter parent just like his own if he hadn’t been shaken off the path he had been going down. And that raised the question: wasn’t his father once a hurt kid and angry teen just like him? What happened to those who grow up and don’t break the cycle? What happens to those in a flawed society with a legacy of trauma and chains passed down each generation who don’t break free? Why?
> 
> This story and Ambrose himself (Rodrigue, too) are some of my own personal answer to those questions. It was also an exercise in compassion, I think. Please enjoy!
> 
> (There’s more notes at the bottom with some links to various things related to this verse as well as some art of Ambrose himself. Feel free to check it out!)

_Harpstring Moon, 1152._

His father sends him a letter the second Tuesday of the month, once again. Same address, same farewell, same awful fucking insinuations wrapped up in pleasant cordialities if you didn’t know the man who penned them. 

Ambrose answers it. 

After all, he’s the good son of the good Margrave Gautier. It wouldn’t do for him to be ignoring the regards of his own dear, esteemed father. He should have known that even the holy halls of Garreg Mach wouldn’t extend beyond his father’s reach. Something to remedy, of course. But on this Tuesday, it’s just Ambrose. And the letter.

He’d really rather be drinking right now. 

_Send my regards_ , his father has written this time, _to our Crown Prince, may he ever be healthy and sound. I am sure you have only given him the best of your attention. I am glad that you’re acquainting yourself with your betters, but do remember you’re prone to excess and don’t overextend your welcome._

_Fuck you_ , Ambrose doesn’t write. He smiles instead, and stands up to pace around the room, then flings himself back into the chair and writes, hurriedly: _As always, I have given my regards and my humble compliments in your stead, Father. Ours &etc are pleased and their fur stroked suitably_. 

Like hell he’d be stroking anything of Lambert’s. 

He lies by omission about his studies—they’re going fantastic, actually, but his father doesn’t need to know—and closes with the usual contrived farewells and a flourish. As soon as the last sharp curve of _Gautier_ is inked he pushes back from the desk, tipping his chair back, balancing precariously. Good riddance.

And then, like the damned thing summoned him, Lambert knocks at the door, rapt and insistent. Ambrose, who already knows that knock anywhere, tips further back in his chair with his boot pressed against the lip of his desk. “Are you here to save me from purgatory?” he calls. 

“—What?” Lambert asks, presumably only catching the tail end of the phrase as he swings the door open. He laughs that bright, buoyant prince laugh. Ambrose flexes his foot and doesn’t lose his balance. “Goddess, you should have seen the stir in the courtyard. Why are you still holed up in here, anyway?”

The chair thunks back to the floor. Ambrose regards the letter. “My father chose today to interrogate his good son.”

“But it’s such a nice day out!” 

Lambert invites himself into the room and immediately goes reaching for Ambrose’s dresser of curiosities. He picks up an intricate glass sculpture, clearly gets bored of it, and starts picking over the other trinkets. Ambrose bites the inside of his cheek and tucks his boots back up on top of his desk, one heel crossed over the other. “Looking for something, Your Highness?”

Lambert taps the glass of his insect collection box. It survived the journey to the academy remarkably unscathed, but Lambert might bring it to its limit. “How strange they look when you put them all together like this!”

Ambrose smiles, quite pleasantly. “That’s what makes it a collection, Your Highness.” 

“It seems almost sad,” Lambert says, bending down to be at level with the glass. Ambrose can see his reflection superimposed over the rows of pins. “To see the poor creatures trapped like that.”

Ambrose taps his heel against the desk, impatient. “Is it any different than hunting game?”

“Hah, I’d say this is less of a sport. No offense, Brose, but it seems like a bore.” 

That’s because you’re an idiot with no discerning taste, oh royal cub of ours, he thinks. “It’s a hobby I’ve long enjoyed. I’m sure you have—important things to fill your time.” When you’re not ditching class and running off in fits of boredom, that is. 

“I suppose so,” Lambert says, thoughtfully. He straightens up. “Well! I’m here to rescue you from this dungeon of a room. There’s still more than enough light left in the day, and Rodrigue said he’d save you a spot in the dining hall.” 

Ambrose raises an eyebrow at that, dropping his heels to the floor and following the momentum through to his feet. He reaches for his jacket and starts to put it on, glancing in his mirror, when he realizes Lambert is already out the door. He scowls at himself in the reflection, then schools his expression into something much more pleasant and follows him out the door. 

By the time they’re out of the dorms and blinking into the sun, it feels like a particular burden to keep on his face. 

“It’s already so much hotter here than back home! Some days, I’ve half a mind to rip the sleeves off my jacket, uniform be damned!”

“Truly a test of your resolve,” Ambrose comments. “And so admirably unconcerned with your image.” 

Lambert laughs agreeably. “Well! Better here than somewhere else. Can you imagine how boiling it is somewhere like Ailell—now I understand why we call it the Valley of Torment. Goddess! Sounds like a nightmare.”

“I would’ve thought it the sort of place to go as part of a princely education. It is, after all, bordering your territory,” Ambrose says. He adds, lightly, “It’s not as boiling there as I’d thought it’d be.”

Lambert turns to gape at him. Ambrose smiles.

“I’ve been there.” He hasn’t. “My father took me to see the valley.” He didn’t. Gautiers stay in their territory, and they defend the border. You’d have to be an idiot to assume otherwise.

Lambert, he’s found, always performs wonderfully. “Brilliant!” he says. “Brose, you’ll have to tell me more about it. We traveled some, of course! Around Faerghus, but always good fun.” 

Yes, Ambrose remembers. He remembers, from the letters Rodrigue had sent years ago, so flavorful in their commentary about the prince. As they walk, the afternoon sun has an unfortunate way of illuminating Lambert, turning his blond hair golden. 

Lambert, with his neatly slicked back hair—the only barely neat thing about him, and even then his bangs are breaking free and falling into his face. Irritatingly, unfathomably, even his rumpled uniform and the ridiculous grin seem to be endearing to the students around them—everyone notices him, everyone gravitates toward him. Ambrose adjusts the cuffs of his jacket. 

The letters, full of commentary, and so full of complaints! They didn’t paint the prettiest of portraits of him, this future king.

“I know,” Ambrose counters. “Rodrigue kept me well informed those past years.”

“I forgot about those letters! I never had much patience for letter writing myself, always seemed a chore, but Rodrigue seemed perfectly happy to get yours. Hah, he’d always hole himself up to answer them, even shushed me over interrupting once!” 

Rodrigue shushing their prince, over one of his letters. How nice. It’s an amusing thought to tuck away as they reach the open door to the dining hall. Lambert steps inside. 

Ambrose can pick out Rodrigue amongst the students, seated near a boy with an unfortunately blunt haircut and baby fat stubbornly clinging to his cheeks. The Galatea heir. And a crestless one at that, what a shame. He doesn’t notice as they walk in, gesturing something to Rodrigue.

Ambrose has barely spoken with him; he’s never going to have much sway, and the Galatea territory is already poor and lacking in prestige—he wonders idly, again, if he’s been sent here to angle for good blood for the Galatea brood. A real pity for him.

Maybe he thinks it’s worth strengthening bonds with House Fraldarius, but they’ve already chosen their primary ally—and there’s none higher. After all, it’s said Fraldarius so greatly appreciate their close bonds with the crown, they left their eldest and heir apparent in the care of the castle to be raised alongside the crown prince as a testament to their prized intimacy.

Rodrigue, he’s sure, is the same as when they were younger. Lambert’s not-shadow, as dark and quiet as the little prince was bright and loud. A future advisor, raised with his future king as brothers—or, was it a prince and his whipping boy? 

“Rodrigue!” Lambert announces, taking the seat next to him with a grin. “I found Ambrose, holed up in the dorms, exactly where you said he would be!” 

Rodrigue looks up. His chatting companion abruptly goes silent in the presence of their royal cub. Ambrose slips into the chair across from him, casually propping a hand under his chin as he leans in towards Rodrigue. “So truly, I have you to thank for saving me from purgatory.” 

"Is it hot enough to be called that?" Rodrigue muses, and then breaks into his own little grin. He turns to Lambert. "Did you think about cutting the sleeves off your jacket again?"

Lambert laughs. "Now, before you start—" 

“I’m afraid you may want to reconsider.” 

“—it’s damn hot out here. I’d take a good northern chill over this any day. It’s not even Blue Sea Moon! If it gets much hotter, we’ll all be down to our underclothes. I just came up with a clever alternative!” 

“I’m not sure that’s how people deal with the heat.”

“I can’t see how it wouldn’t be! I was just telling Ambrose—oh! Brose, tell us about seeing the Valley of Torment. By the Goddess, it still sounds like a nightmare.” 

“Hm?” Rodrigue regards him with a considering look. “I don’t remember you mentioning traveling in our old letters.” 

“Oh but you forget,” Ambrose replies, delicately sliding into his easiest smile. Maybe, not-shadow, we both have secrets. “I had _so much_ to reply to there was barely space left to talk about my own day, let alone our travels. You were such an expressive confidant, even at that tender age!”

“Was I?” Rodrigue lifts a hand up to his chin in thought. “Interesting.” 

“Um,” says the fourth member of their little group, happily forgotten by them all. “Rodrigue, sorry, but I need to get going.”

Rodrigue drops his hand and turns to smile at him. “Of course, Petyr. I’m sorry we couldn’t go over the notes longer. Please, let me know if you’d like to later."

“Yes, of course, um.” His eyes dart around the table at each of them, freezing on Lambert, and he twitches into a little half-bow. “Farewell?” 

“Farewell!” Lambert repeats, agreeably.

Ambrose looks away from them and back at Rodrigue. He’s still smiling as he turns back in Lambert’s direction, the smile softening into something else. “There are meat pies today.” 

“Are there? Brilliant!” Lambert exclaims. “The food at the monastery is somehow even better than home, though I must admit I miss the wild deer in Faerghus.”

“Last time, I think you stopped our chance of catching any when you—”

“—I saw a bear in the distance! A great big one, worth more than five of those.”

“Yes. A _bear_ , when we were supposed to take down and carry back whatever we found between the two of us?”

“As if we couldn’t! Come, Rodrigue, have more faith in my strength than that! We never went hungry during training, either, even in the thick of it. Imagine how many people that bear could have fed!” 

“If it didn’t make a meal out of us first.”

“I saw you eyeing it too. Hah, you’re just as battle hungry as me! I remember when—” 

“Rodrigue,” Ambrose cuts in. “Surely, you aren’t only spending your time tutoring our fortuitous classmates. Did you sign up for any of the electives?”

“I signed up for choir practice,” Rodrigue says. “On Thursdays. It’s being held in the cathedral after the mid-afternoon bells ...I thought it might be nice.” 

“You should hear Rodrigue sing! He’s got the hang of it absurdly well, I’m always in awe. Can’t hold a tune to save my life!” Lambert beams at him. Rodrigue dips his head, and flushes slightly.

Ambrose smoothes down the sleeve of his jacket. “Of course,” he says. 

The dining hall chatter cuts in around them, more students filing in as kitchen staff begins serving meals. Ambrose gracefully excuses himself and rises to his feet to get in line for the meat pies that are apparently in such high demand. They’re not to his taste, too quick to crumble into a mess and always so pungent with cheese. 

He contemplates, more pleasantly and with a freshly renewed interest, the variety of options he has for how to spend his next free afternoon. 

Ambrose has no real love for the cathedral. It makes for an imposing spectacle, of course, and the craftsmanship of its stained glass is exquisite and beautiful—but it’s not in the least to his tastes. It stands at too great a height. Even those heavy doors looming in their cold stone arches are an eyesore as he stands beneath them. It makes him irritable.

He cuts toward the terrace instead. The afternoon breeze rustles around him as he flicks his jacket out and over the nearest bench, a buffer from the rough wood as he sprawls casually on it, hands behind his head. From here, Ambrose can still hear the rising and falling of melodies from the choir practice.

He can even pick through the different voices. He looks up at the sky, idly unfocused, watching clouds like fragile wisps of wool pull and fray in the breeze. It’s surprisingly pleasant, really.

He could almost close his eyes. 

When the voices fall away at the end of practice, Ambrose slips to his feet and retrieves his jacket, draping it over his shoulders as he heads back toward the cathedral doors. He waits, leaning against the wall, the stone cold against his back. Here in the shadow of the building, he wonders again about the happy coincidence of so many influential nobles ending up under the Church’s benevolent tutelage. 

Rodrigue steps out into the light.

Ambrose, from his vantage point, pitches the thought. “It seems we’re encouraged to make the closest of ties here in our academy days. Do you ever wonder if those ties extend beyond our cherished classmates? Perhaps a little friendly bout of matchmaking—between us and our holiest of patrons?”

Rodrigue pauses, then says, “I wouldn’t think to be so ungracious toward the Goddess.”

“Oh, of course,” Ambrose pushes off from the wall and falls in step next to him. “A _believer_.”

“Are you not?” Rodrigue asks. 

“Why, I’m perfectly pious,” Ambrose says, pitching his voice sincerely, “I follow the Goddess wherever she may lead me—even off a cliff! It seems a rather dramatic end, but if the Church wills it, what better way?”

His father believes, of course. Eternal Flames and all that. The will of the Goddess—a call to obey something supposedly so much grander than himself. To the Eternal Flames with _that_. 

“I believe the Goddess would will better things for you.” Rodrigue sends a mild look his way. Ambrose shrugs, gracefully exaggerated, all put-upon. He changes tacts, swept with a sudden annoyance. 

“Choir practice! Are you singing hymns for the Goddess herself? Not only a believer, but so _devoted_ of one. Does Lambert not share the same devotion?”

“His Highness,” Rodrigue replies, with a sharper look, and Ambrose feels a sting of irritation, “has other obligations on his time.”

“My apologies,” Ambrose steps across to look out from the balustrade of the adjoining bridge between the hall and the cathedral behind them. He leans lightly on his elbows. “It seemed the prince was always simply Lambert in your letters, it must’ve been on my mind. He offered himself as a poor singer before, surely it’s not just that?”

“Hm.” Rodrigue pauses for a moment, and then joins him at the view. “I wondered if you sing?” 

“I can carry a tune, of course. Singing praises of the Goddess—well, that’s better left to our good choir, like you, isn’t it?” 

“Perhaps. Would you care to join us?” Another pause. “I was taught to sing. It was a way to practice self-discipline as well as control of my tone.” 

“How spectacularly useful, then! To the future advisor of our royalty!” 

“Yes,” Rodrigue says. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, previously catching in the breeze. Ambrose watches his hand. “But I must admit… I also enjoy it for myself. There’s something fortifying about hymns.” 

“Is there?” Ambrose leans forward more, the breeze tugging at the hanging sleeves of his jacket. He thinks about reading hymns, in the chapel at Gautier. The echo of his father’s clipped footsteps, pronounced and sharp in the acoustics of the hall. “A stablehand used to hum some sort of ditty while he tacked up our horses. It was always easy to hear from the balcony above, if you knew to listen. I believe I prefer music to be something more like that.” 

“I remember your horse.” Rodrigue turns a smile toward him. “You wrote about her? A filly, born that previous summer, when you were twelve.”

Ambrose waves a careless hand, pushing off from the balustrade and turning back toward the entrance hall. “Horses come and go in Gautier, of course. Surely it’s the same at the capital? Or are the royal horses a special stock—did _you_ get to use those?”

Rodrigue doesn’t seem to react to the emphasis. “His Highness and I went riding often, yes. I believe some of the war horses came from Gautier, although many of them are from Fraldarius. My family, I’m told, takes great care with training their horses for battle, and for strength of temperament and loyalty. The mare his Highness is fond of and one of my own are stabled here now.” 

“‘Fond of’? Is that wise with a beast of burden, especially one made for battle?”

“The bond between rider and horse is a valuable one, especially in battle,” Rodrigue says, a drop of surprise in his tone. They continue walking to the reception hall. 

The filly: a dappled grey, just starting to fade out of the chestnut coat she’d been born with when he last saw her, made into a prestigious gift—for a most advantageous connection, of course. Had he cried?

“I don’t have a particular soft spot for horses,” he says, very lightly. “Riding is the same regardless of the beast, and _that_ is the real pleasure. Though, I don’t imagine we’ll have as much opportunity for riding outside of training drills, here.” 

Rodrigue pushes open one of the doors, his shoulder pressed against it to keep it from closing. 

“Oh,” Ambrose continues, “but if the opportunity arose—do you care to take that ‘one of your own’ you’re fond of out for rides?” Ambrose steps into the hall. The low murmur of conversation around them sharpens as Rodrigue lets the door close behind him, falling back into step beside Ambrose. 

Rodrigue smiles. “I would. I would think His Highness would enjoy the chance for fresh air and exercise for his mare as well.” 

“Of course.” Ambrose says. “I would never be so remiss as to not invite our dear prince.”

Rodrigue stops, and looks at him. “I believe you may find yourself friends, if you spent time together.” 

“Oh, but we could never be _equals_ ,” Ambrose says, his tone still as light as silk. This royal cub of theirs will, of course, eventually take the throne—as he has been so often reminded. “He is, after all, so far above us.”

“I suppose that is very true.” Rodrigue has a quieter smile on his lips. “He is my future king and liege, and he will always take priority. But he’s also my close friend.” 

He continues, “There’s nothing more heartening than someone who understands you. I imagine it would be lonely if there was no one.” 

Ambrose steps back as people pass between them to get to the doors. He feels restless and irritated with the rising noise around them, the reception hall clearly too crowded for this time of day. “I imagine,” he replies, “it would be so.” 

Rodrigue continues regarding him with the same smile. Ambrose, itching to leave the crowded hall, turns away. 

“Well,” he says, with a careless sweep of his hand. His fingers look unusually ungraceful, and he drops them to his side. “Perhaps we three will all be happy friends, after all.” 

He doesn’t, of course, count on it. 

_Harpstring Moon, 1141._

He’s trying to contain his excitement.

The slow journey to the capital had finally come to an end, and they’ve been traveling through the streets of Fhirdiad at long last. It’s louder and noisier and dirtier than he expected, and the castle now looming before them is the least exciting of it all—it’s all battlements and high walls, much too familiar and dull with its old stone and formal banners. 

But the city itself! Full of people and the oddest of curiosities and so many things he could only catch a glimpse of on their way to the castle. He’s humming with the thrill of it as he slides off his horse, legs twinging as he hits the ground hard from the long drop. 

His father readjusts his sash and hands off his own somber horse to a castle stablehand. He eyes Ambrose from his great height. “On best behavior, dear son. Show proper respect— these are our rulers. It’s an honor to be here, and to represent House Gautier.”

Ambrose nods, and swallows. He tries not to bounce on his feet as they walk inside. The marketplace! There had been a hundred stalls, he’s sure of it. And plenty more people in colors other than the Gautier cloth, all around! 

It’s quiet once the great doors shut behind them, his father’s clipped steps echoing on the floor of the entrance hall. Ambrose is caught by the grand chandeliers dancing with candle light—up so impossibly high above and creating the most haunting of shadows on the ceiling—when his father abruptly makes a low, sharp noise.

Ambrose snaps back to attention, freezes, and then folds into a bow. He can hear the sound of footsteps and the rustle of cloth on the grand staircase, and he starts breathing quicker, eyes darting across the floor and back to his father’s boots. It seems a lifetime passes before a booming voice interrupts his pounding heart.

“Margrave Gautier,” the king announces. “How long has it been since last we met! Sreng must be quaking to have you at their heels at all times! Now, is this your boy?” 

“Your Majesty, if I may present my son, Ambrose.” Ambrose looks up at the king, grandiose and towering in royal blues and whites, the queen beside him in heavy furs, and the prince, of course, he’s sure, beside her. But the prince is—just another child. He’s not even taller than Ambrose, and his collar is askew, and he has a smudge of something on his cheek. He’s _the prince_. For a moment, Ambrose looks at him in confusion, and then realizes he’s been caught staring, the prince’s face splitting into a bright smile in his direction. He quickly dips his gaze and looks past him.

There’s another boy, a step behind him on his left, neater and standing still. He’s dark haired and small, and it’s like someone put him on the wrong shelf, a mismatched piece next to the brassy, bright center of the royal family. Ambrose immediately likes him. He’s _interesting_. 

“So he is! Ambrose, are you keeping our border safe?” The king chuckles. “We adults have boring matters to attend to, but Lambert and Rodrigue are happy to have another boy around to play with, I’m sure!”

Ambrose snaps back to attention as soon as the king talks, and smiles his most proper smile at him. He doesn’t dare speak. The queen addresses his father.

“Margrave Gautier,” she says in a warm voice, “The east rooms have been prepared for you. Would you care to join us for a ride after the discussions? We’ve just passed such a dreary time of year, it’d be a shame to miss the sunlight.”

“Of course, I would be honored to accompany the party.” His father has on his most courteous of voices.

The introductions come to a close and the procession starts back up the stairs, the prince taking the steps quickly and his shadow following him, the prince turning back to say something to him when they’re too far away for Ambrose to hear. They disappear around the corner. 

For a moment, it’s him and his Father in the great entrance hall. A hand reaches out briefly and squeezes his arm tight, and then his father is gone, footsteps echoing away up the grand steps. Ambrose relaxes. He looks around the hall, eager and excited to start exploring, but there’s a servant standing by the archway.

He straightens up. 

She smiles at him and says, “His Highness and Master Rodrigue have just finished with their afternoon lessons. Shall I take you to them, Master Ambrose?” 

Ambrose nods carefully. He wonders how many servants are here, and how many will be watching the rooms they’ve put aside for him and his father. It seems a very big place, and he hopes that means there’s many secret spots he can find—he’s discovered all of Castle Gautier’s best, and surely the Blaiddyd castle would be even better. For now, he follows her as she leads him through another hall and up a different set of stairs. 

The rooms they get to are at the end of a long hall decked in the royal colors and more ornate candleholders. The servant pauses in the open doorway. Ambrose looks around her, and he isn’t sure why they’ve stopped, because the room is empty. 

“I’m so very sorry,” she says, and smooths a hand down her apron. Ambrose looks up at her suddenly anxious expression and breathes carefully. “I’m not sure—I’ll look for them. Please stay here in the meantime.” 

He waits, quietly. A moment stretches by and she doesn’t come back. Another moment follows, and he’s itching where he stands, and the doorway is the least interesting part of the room. It’s just stone and dark heavy wood. But, he realizes as he darts inside, the room has grand windows.

Pressed up against the glass on his tiptoes, Ambrose can see far into the distance, part of the courtyard and some of the city beyond it. How he wants, so desperately, to be out there again! He’s counting roofs in the distance when a sudden movement close below catches his attention. He pushes up further on his toes to look. 

It’s the prince, he’s sure of it. He presses his face to the glass and then pulls back and scrubs at it when it gets fogged by his breath, trying to get a clear look. But it’s a boy, and he’s blond, and he’s moving awfully quickly from the courtyard to another walkway and—he’s not sure what’s over there. But Ambrose has found the prince!

He decides, feeling quite clever about it, that he’ll _get_ the prince and return him to where he’s supposed to be. After all, he’s clearly supposed to be in here and not out there. He nods to himself, and drops down from his tiptoes, and takes one last look at the direction the boy had gone in to carefully catalogue it in his head so he can go the right direction. 

It’s easy to navigate his way down to the courtyard, and easier still to dodge the few servants that walk by, carrying bundles or baskets of things and murmuring conversations to each other as he slips past. Ambrose trails his hand along the stone of the wall as he walks outside in the mild air, his fingers bumping over the dips and crevices. This place is bigger than it had looked from up above, and he’s starting to get a little worried that he won’t be able to find the prince when he hears the rise of voices from the other side of the walkway. 

A shout, and Ambrose darts through the opening in the stone archway. He’s right, it is the prince! He’s scuffling with another boy—wait, he realizes, as he steps closer, it’s _the_ boy. He’s very excited and pleased that in his quest to retrieve the prince, he’s also managed to find him again. 

He hurries toward them. At the same time, their heads pop up and look in his direction. 

“Hullo!” says the prince. 

His companion, from underneath his arm, says, “Lambert, let go.” It’s slightly muffled.

“Hello,” says Ambrose. He shifts on his feet, apprehensive and excited. 

The boy, freed from his hold, steps forward and smiles. “Hello, I’m Rodrigue,” he says. He pauses and then adds, more formally, “Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius.” 

Ambrose moves to mimic his posture and says, feeling very important, “I’m Ambrose Rene Gautier.” They grin at each other.

The prince, who never has to be introduced, says, “Right! Ambrose! Do you want to play the next round with us?” 

Ambrose looks at them. He’s not sure what they’re playing and he’s very sure he doesn’t want to look silly in front of them. Besides, he realizes, a hurriedly remembered thought after the excitement of finding the boy—Rodrigue!—and the prince again, he’s supposed to be _returning_ him to where he’s supposed to be. He hesitates. 

“We’re playing hide-and-seek,” Rodrigue adds. “One of us counts to a hundred and the others hide, and if the seeker finds them and tags them before the next bell sounds, they lose.” 

“Rodrigue and I wrestled for it and I won, so I’m the seeker!” 

Ambrose grins. “I’m the best at finding secret spots,” he says. “Maybe _I’ll_ win.”

“With three of us it’ll be even more of a challenge.” The prince beams back. “Maybe I’ll win!” 

“I think whoever wins should get to pick what to play next,” Rodrigue says. 

“Then I’m definitely going to win! Get ready!” the prince exclaims. He turns around and starts very loudly counting up from zero. A small, warm hand wraps around Ambrose’s and tugs gently in the opposite direction. Ambrose starts and looks at Rodrigue, who puts a finger to his lips and then gestures back in the direction of the grounds. They take off, hands linked. 

At the walkway, Rodrigue slows and says, “We have to hurry—he gets bored and he _never_ counts all the way to a hundred.”

“Isn’t that the rule?”

Rodrigue makes a slight face. “It’s _Lambert_.”

Ambrose, who has known the prince for less than an afternoon, agrees. They start running. 

He’s letting Rodrigue pull him along, hands joined together, when he sees it—the perfect spot. He stops short and Rodrigue slows beside him. Ambrose points. It’s a small stone mound with a boarded up entrance, but the boards at one side are pulling away, neglected and weathering. Definitely enough space to crawl into, and definitely a place the prince wouldn’t think to look, he’s sure. 

“ _There_ ,” he says, grinning. “I’ll hold it aside and you can crawl in first.” 

The loud counting from the courtyard center has sped up in pace, and Rodrigue looks at the weathered boarding, looks at Ambrose, glances back in the direction they came, and finally nods with a set expression on his face. He crawls inside. Ambrose follows after, the board scraping at his back as he wiggles underneath. 

He blinks in the dim chamber, the only light filtering in from slats in the wood, filtering past the floating dust displaced by their trespassing. Rodrigue’s squished against Ambrose’s side in the small space, and he sneezes in the dust, hands pressed to his face. “Excuse me,” he whispers, and rubs at his nose. “I’m not sure we’re supposed to be here.”

“It’s the _best_ ,” Ambrose declares. He draws his feet up through the sawdust and unearths another cloud of dust. “I’m very good at finding secret spots. I found all of Gautier’s best and I knew there had to be even better ones here.”

“What’s Gautier like?” Rodrigue asks.

“Cold,” Ambrose says with a shrug. “Oh! I saw a whole herd of sheep pass by the gates, so many I lost count. And Father says the battlements were built for protecting Gautier’s border from the invasions, but I’ve mostly spotted villagers from them.”

“I think we have less sheep here,” Rodrigue says, thoughtfully. “I’ve only seen ones I can still count.” 

“Is Fraldarius very full of other animals?” Ambrose asks, fascinated. He knows the names of the other territories, and often traces them on the large table map now that he knows his letters, the new lectures of his father’s about their import less interesting than the hints of trees and mountains under the text. 

“I don’t know,” Rodrigue says. “I only remember a little.”

“Isn’t it your family’s territory?”

Rodrigue wraps his hands around his knees and tucks his chin on top of them. “They gave me to the royal family to be raised with Lam—His Highness. We have a duty as Fraldariuses, and our duty is to always aid the royal family when they need us.” He looks thoughtful. “So I was raised here.” 

Ambrose thinks about it. He shifts his feet, his shoulder pressed solidly against Rodrigue’s, and he thinks about how very boring and lonely it is sometimes in Gautier, even with all the places he’s discovered for himself. “That sounds like it’s nice.”

Rodrigue looks at him, his big eyes solemn. “It isn’t usually bad,” he says, very quiet, and very careful, like it’s a big secret. 

Ambrose nudges his shoulder with his own. He’s found he rather likes secrets. 

“Do you—”

There’s a crash and suddenly extra light is flooding in from the wooden slats in front of them. Ambrose’s breath catches, and through the opening, the prince’s beaming face pops into view. “Found you!” he exclaims. “I forgot about this ice-house, but we used it for extra food one year! What a good hiding spot!” 

He wiggles in next to them, making the already cramped space even more cramped, and cheerfully pats both of them on the shoulder, reaching over Ambrose to get to Rodrigue. “There! Tagged you. The bell hasn’t rung yet!”

It’s warm in the space with two bodies smushed near his. Ambrose feels cozy in a way he’s never really felt before. He’s distracted for a moment by that and misses the start of the conversation, and it’s only the bickering that brings him back— “You didn’t count—”

“Your Highness?” A voice outside their hiding spot lifts in consternation. 

Lambert and Rodrigue both freeze. “I think it’s Gustave,” Rodrigue whispers. Lambert pops his head up to look through the slats. Rodrigue reaches out to grab the back of his tunic to try to pull him back down, but it’s too late. 

“I can see you, Your Highness.” A sigh. “Did you flee from your nurse again? Is Lord Rodrigue packed in there too?”

The prince scrambles out, Ambrose following after and Rodrigue trailing after him. Ambrose tries to smooth down his clothes and look neat, suddenly worried about the board that had scraped his back before as he tries to feel if there’s been a tear left in his shirt. Rodrigue pats sawdust off his knees. 

The boy, stern-faced and dressed in knight’s garb, looks unimpressed. “All three of you?” 

“Rodrigue and I were playing hide-and-seek with Ambrose, Gustave!” The prince points back to the ice-house behind them. “Look at the hiding spot we found!” 

“The ice-house was boarded off after that uncommonly warm year passed.” The boy crosses his arms and regards them. Ambrose thinks he might almost be an adult, but not yet, so he doesn’t feel so worried about being found out. “To keep out pests, but maybe it was also meant to keep out _children_.” 

The prince, who doesn’t look all that perturbed, drops his hand. Rodrigue pipes up and says, “I think it needs to be repaired. The wood was falling apart and it wouldn’t keep out anything, I don’t think.” 

Gustave nods, considering. “Yes… I will let someone know about that.”

“We can tell the carpenters for you. I think we were going back that way because Lambert wanted to see the wool brought in for dyeing.”

“Yes!” the prince says. “That sounds fun!” 

Ambrose shuffles on his feet, glancing at the both of them, unsure if the ‘we’ includes him. Gustave uncrosses his arms and looks appeased for the moment. “Yes,” he says, and very stiffly for someone who’s not an adult yet adds, “that would be suitable. I have tasks I need to get done and this was another to add.” 

“Don’t worry, Gustave,” the prince replies with a grin. He pats Ambrose’s shoulder with an enthusiastic hand. “We have to show Ambrose the rest of the grounds anyway! The carpenters are always doing something exciting.” 

Ambrose beams. Gustave gives them a final look before straightening his stance and heading very purposefully toward the castle, promptly forgotten by the prince and Rodrigue as they take off, calling for Ambrose to follow. 

He trails behind, feeling warm and happy in the sunlight and excited about the new adventure—the whole grounds! It’s almost as good as being back in the marketplace. He runs a hand over his pocket, absently, and his fingers stutter over a loose thread where he knows his button usually is. 

“Oh,” he calls ahead to the others, pausing. “I dropped a button, I’ll be right back.” 

He quickly retraces his steps, and grins in satisfaction when he spots the button right away, glinting black in the sun. He hops down to pluck it from the ground and a shadow crosses over him. Ambrose looks up. 

“Master Ambrose,” the servant says. “Margrave Gautier called for you.”

Ambrose looks to the boys ahead of him, and hesitates. The servant waits. He stares down at the button in his palm and curls his fingers up and around it, and nods. Each step takes him back from the courtyard green to the pale stone of the walkway, until the high castle walls loom high over him again. Ambrose breathes out. 

Rodrigue turns back and watches him leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This strange labor of love wouldn’t exist without the initial ridiculous twitter brainchild of [jified](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jified/pseuds/jified) and [mareza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mareza/pseuds/mareza), as well as the frequent and thorough and inspiring conversations with mareza as we’ve ended up building this shared verse together. Thanks for accidentally convincing me to commit to a ridiculously long chaptered fic! Hate this! (I’m very invested.) 
> 
> You can learn more about the affectionately and joke-reference named Jock Cinematic Universe (JCU) in [this moment](https://twitter.com/i/events/1195471121732243456?s=13) at twitter that has a lot of extra goodies in it! Direct link to the initial art for Ambrose, academy aged is [here](https://twitter.com/areseliph/status/1191999026196963328), as well as his garbage dad age design [here](https://twitter.com/areseliph/status/1190898742041305088)! More art at the twitter link, go check it out (: 
> 
> My own twitter is @[amorekays](https://twitter.com/amorekays) and you can retweet this fic directly [here](https://twitter.com/amorekays/status/1206119808221057024)!


	2. rodrigue finds purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ambrose makes some plans and encounters some nuisances. Rodrigue finds purgatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is here at last! Please enjoy what is, technically, the first chapter after the prologue. 
> 
> Please note: There’s sexual content in this chapter and the rating jumps to 'explicit' here. Some students drink alcohol (perhaps inadvisably) and then fool around while inebriated. Make better choices?!
> 
> (note: there's art of one of the scenes now, linked in the notes at the end of the chapter!)

_Garland Moon, 1143_.

When Ambrose sees Rodrigue again, he has become much older and cleverer, and weathered two more cold winters from behind the tall walls of Gautier castle. He’s also lost more teeth. His top canine is loose now, and he can’t help but worry at it as he stands in front of his father’s desk in his private study, carefully informing him of the important thing Rodrigue—who had called him a friend!—had asked of him. 

“He’d like to write me.” Ambrose says. 

“‘ _To_ you,’” his father corrects. “Would he? Odd.” He lifts a hand up to his face. “But a traditional allegiance, perhaps, with our territories so close.” 

Ambrose struggles, considering how to phrase it. He does not want to ask. His father will know, if he asks. “Rodrigue said he… wanted to improve his lettering.” 

His father snaps shut the heavy wooden lid of the box. “His lettering benefits from a royal education. Do you think he needs it?”

This one is an easy trick. “ _My_ lettering would improve, of course. The tutor said I write too hastily still.” 

“Would writing letters correct your flaw? A hasty hand,” his father says, standing, “speaks of a lack of measured thought.” 

Ambrose holds himself perfectly upright. His father appraises him from the other side of the desk. He tries not to look particularly wanting or eager. His father will _know_. 

“Well,” his father continues, “even the child stands apart as the Fraldarius heir. We must accept those overtures. You may write to him.”

“Will my tutor look over the letters?” Ambrose asks carefully. 

“Of course,” his father replies, impatient. “Why would you think otherwise? You just told me of your failure to write correctly.”

Ambrose inks the first letter with a careful effort to write deliberately, tongue pressed against his teeth as he concentrates. His writing looks very odd to him like this, but he puts all the care he can into the shape of the words. _Rodrigue_ , he starts, and then frowns. 

What can he write? 

He looks up at his tutor. She’s only been his tutor for a week. They never stay long. He’s had at least four since he turned ten last Red Wolf Moon, and he liked the last one best—she let him ask questions about things not in the day’s lesson and gave the most interesting answers. This one is very by the book, he can tell. He’s gotten very good at sorting them out.

He frowns back down at his desk. She’s going to look over the letter. 

He’ll have to be clever with what he says. He _will_ be. He won’t make a mistake, and he’ll get to keep this, and Rodrigue—a friend!—will write him back. Ambrose is sure of it.

_Garland Moon, 1152_.

In the morning, he is imperfect. There is a ritual to dressing, to preening, to perfecting. There is a ritual to the plaiting of his hair, to the angle of the fall of the braid over his shoulder, to the security of its gold tie, brilliant against the red of his hair. As he works, he catches his own expression, and makes it into something easier. 

It’s in the morning when he is imperfect, and it’s in the morning when he is quiet. 

Ambrose watches himself in the mirror. 

His jacket fits neatly by the time he leaves his room, the effect satisfyingly complete, and he feels quite charming as he heads down the stairs. He has a plan, of course, to keep this time at the Academy going smoothly. It’d be quite careless not to. 

At the close of the past moon he’d had the unhappy fortune of riding out with Rodrigue—and Lambert. Their prince had been so talkative and so eager to be the center of attention for the entirety of the long afternoon. He’d had plenty of questions about the Valley of Torment for Ambrose, and Ambrose had fed him some lines from his favorite geographical text—and thrown in some tidbits about Derdriu for good measure. He makes a note to himself now, fingers fluttering in thought, to check the library later for any useful collections to add to his knowledge. Lambert was still suitably impressed, though Rodrigue had been vexingly quiet. 

They had also raced. Ambrose had not won. 

He has since decided there must be something that Lambert—quick to bore, quicker to impatience—would have no interest in. He’s going to invite them both to join him in it. Lambert will ask off joining and Rodrigue will come by himself, or Lambert will come along and be miserable. His father would be _so_ displeased to hear that Ambrose isn’t giving their resident royalty the best of his attention. And, with any luck, Lambert won’t trouble him again. 

It’s an excellent plan. 

The satisfaction propels him through breakfast and on to his morning class, where he shows up early enough that most of the other students are still milling around outside. He settles into his seat at the first desk and readies himself for the lesson. After a moment, a girl, standard uniform foregone for shorts and a narrow skirt, drops into the seat next to him. 

Class has been a validating intellectual venture. He’s sure he’s charmed his teacher, who was easy enough to sort out, he’s more than familiar with those. However, some of his classmates have proven to be more of a nuisance. Like this one, with her aptly auburn hair—so hot-headed—who has quite the sour disposition for someone so small of stature. 

She makes a face at him. He smiles back, excessively cordial, and looks to the seats behind them. 

Empty. No matter, there’s still time until class starts. He twirls his pen idly. 

His seatmate—exceptionally _un_ cordial—says, “There’s something extra off-putting about you today.”

Ambrose pauses, pen held lightly between his fingers. “Whatever do you mean?”

She gestures in his direction. “You’re more, you know, ‘ _ugh_ ’ today. Are you planning something?” 

He looks back toward the empty seats. “Isn’t it strange how some of our classmates seem to only make it to class some of the time? It seems unconducive to their studies—I’m surprised it’s not punished more severely.” 

She snorts. “If you want to scold the crown prince go ahead, but I don’t think the teachers are going to do it.”

Ambrose smiles. “How curious—despite the sanctity of this establishment, still no slap on the wrist for a prince?” 

“Nope,” she says, lips popping the sound of the word. “What’s the deal, anyway? It’s just Lambert, he’s harmless.” 

“And so full of disregard for these things,” Ambrose says. The last of the students trickle in alongside their professor and—still no sign of them. Posing the thought very seriously, he adds, “I heard tale there’s a hidden basement for those who fall beneath the expectations for students here. It would be so tragic if our dear prince—of all people!—was lost to it.” 

“So you’re concerned, huh?” She doesn’t sound particularly persuaded. 

“Of course,” Ambrose says. He surveys the desks behind them again. A student—the Charon, with a crest—is weaving together a garland of white flowers. The pair of seats behind her remain incriminatingly empty.

“Professor, has some terrible tragedy befallen our classmates?” Another snort from his seatmate. He courteously ignores it. “It seems they never found their way this morning.”

The professor looks up from rearranging her papers and fixes him with a discerning look. Ambrose realizes his mistake. Damn. She smiles benignly. “It’s nice of you to be so concerned about your classmates, Ambrose. I’m not sure where Lambert and Rodrigue are, but Darby is in the infirmary and probably won’t be back in class for a few days. Actually, Eris.”

His seatmate straightens up from where she’s leaning on her arm. 

“We had to shift around chores with Darby in the infirmary, so you’re on sky watch with Pauline tomorrow. And Ambrose, you have stable duty with Lambert this afternoon. He should already be aware of the chore schedule, but even if he doesn’t show up, we can’t neglect the horses because of our own lackadaisical attitudes, so I need you to step up, okay?”

“Of course,” he says, schooling his smile back to mildly pleasant. _Dammit_. Their royal cub isn’t even here to grace class with his presence, and yet—still he remains a burr in the saddle. 

Their professor moves on from rearranging chore assignments to the start of the lesson, one Ambrose finds himself inconveniently distracted from. He taps his foot under the desk. 

“Bad luck,” says his seatmate, ungraciously, holding back a laugh. Ambrose stills. 

Lambert shows up for stable duty. Late. 

Ambrose hops down from his perch on the fence and starts unbuttoning his cuffs. “Here I thought you had abandoned us,” he says off-handedly as he folds his sleeves back to his elbows, “Your Highness.” 

Lambert laughs. His face is red—he must’ve been running, though it seems he wasn’t in a hurry to get here—and he’s somehow more tousled than usual, his bangs breaking free from his barely tamed hair damp with sweat and plastered to his face. His top button is undone. “Sorry! You should’ve been with us at the market earlier, Rodrigue and I had a blast. So! Is this what we’re doing?”

He gestures towards the stables. He is, inexplicably, holding two garlands of white flowers, slightly crumpled in his grasp. Ambrose pauses on them. 

“Oh! I’ve gotten a few of these today, Garland Moon and all, aren’t they great? I already gave one of them to Rodrigue. You should take this one!” 

He holds the garland out to Ambrose, stepping frustratingly close—close enough that Ambrose must either take the offered thing or give him an obvious rejection. Ambrose takes it. 

The petals are soft beneath his fingers, almost translucent in their delicateness. The stems have been excellently woven together by someone’s hand. “How very kind of you,” Ambrose says, lightly, “to give up someone’s thoughtful work.” 

“I don’t know how anyone’s fingers cooperate for such tiny things! But at the market,” Lambert says, “stalls were selling white roses by the dozens! We spent more time looking at the weaponsmiths’ stalls, but I swear everywhere was stocked to near bursting. There were those flowers, and these cheerful yellow ones I swear I hadn’t seen before, and fabrics, spices, books Rodrigue wanted to see, all kinds of things.”

Ambrose listens to him ramble, pressing his fingernail in against the delicate skin of the petal. There’s a crescent moon of a bite left behind. Lambert continues talking. Around them, the sweet smell of the hay they’re supposed to be moving is familiar and pleasant, the same sort of smell that wafted up to the small lofts above the stables in Gautier, where he’d spent afternoons released from his tutors. Before he grew too big. 

“Well! Brose, what were we supposed to do this time?” 

Ambrose looks down at the garland in his hands, the thin petal torn between his fingers. “Move hay, it seems. I imagine the monks will have more than enough requests to fill our time after that, if it comes to it.” 

“Great! Work in the sun is always invigorating!” Lambert brushes his cape aside and stamps over to the stacked piles of hay. 

“Is it not unbecoming of a prince?” Ambrose reaches for the first bale, the twine rough beneath his hands. He frowns. “To be so enamoured with manual labor.” 

“It’s a bore to be stuck inside all the time. I’ve aced all my exams, so the sunlight must be good for your brain! If you’re struggling, I’d recommend it.”

“I didn’t know you were so—academically gifted,” Ambrose murmurs. “How lucky for you.”

Lambert hoists a bale up and grins. 

Ambrose looks away.

The task goes without incident, the hay bales easy enough to redistribute and restack, only Lambert’s sometimes incessant need for chatter causing any strain. Yet he seems barely winded, despite the sweat still plastering hair to his face and neck. As they move between stables, the heat from the sun is unpleasantly strong. 

The student descends upon them as they’re returning from hauling the last of the bales to the far stable. She’s apparently been beckoned by the spectacle of Lambert in such happy disarray, her face flushed and her eyes darting about like a spooked filly even as she hurries towards them. She’s carrying, cradled carefully in her hands, a garland. 

Lambert notices her late. “Hello!” he exclaims. Ambrose watches from a distance. 

She holds out the garland. “The tradition—you know,” she says, hesitantly. “A garland, to show your, um.”

Ah, Ambrose thinks. So _that’s_ what it’s about. And Lambert, the peculiar object of affection for _so many_ , is here being offered another token by another hapless admirer. 

“Thanks! I’ve gotten so many of these, and they’re all neat! What an excellent day!” Lambert takes the garland and beams. The girl’s face flushes bright pink. Lambert—without a care in the world, clearly—cheerfully turns around and starts to walk away, all at once completely diverted and onto something else. Her face starts to fall.

She seems unable to keep composure of herself, Ambrose thinks with a twinge of disdain, watching her. And how _terribly_ callous and unprincely of Lambert, leaving such broken hearts in his wake—so very easily. What a shame it is Rodrigue isn’t here to smooth things over for him. 

Rodrigue. Lambert must need _him_ desperately. Without him, surely their royal cub would fall apart. Rodrigue keeps his paces, picks up behind him, must always be the one who smooths things over when Lambert wrecks them heedlessly like this. 

“—can’t imagine what they need from me, but they’re coming all the same!” 

“Sorry?” Ambrose says, diverted from watching the girl walk away, so dejected, to Lambert squinting up at the sun. 

“An envoy, riding out from Fhirdiad next week. I can’t imagine what they need from me, but we’re supposed to expect them!” 

The garland is on the ground. It must have fallen from where Lambert had thoughtlessly stuffed it in his pocket with the others. Ambrose reaches down to pick up this fallen token of someone’s affection. 

How unlucky all these admirers were. 

Would they realize what a fool he was soon? No one seemed to notice it. They were all so enamoured with the prince, so sure of his magnificence. The best of their betters, this royal cub of theirs, who lived so high above them all. What would his father have to say about the token _he_ had received—left behind in the stables, discarded by the posts while Lambert moved hay—so cheerfully given to him by the prince? Pleasant words about how entirely undeserving he was, of course. 

Lambert had given Rodrigue a garland as well. Had he happily accepted it? What a perfect little duo they always seem to act now. 

Ambrose looks down at the garland he picked up, those white flowers all woven together, petals mostly crushed. 

Whatever would happen if that perfect duo was so sadly severed?

It seems a silly tradition, to go about handing out such an easily wilted, easily discarded symbol of your intent like this. How odd it is, how many participate. 

He’d do it differently, of course. 

The envoy from Fhirdiad comes, and along with them comes the one thing it seems Ambrose cannot escape. He should have known, of course. 

It takes three things to make a pattern, and this third letter sitting on his desk is the mark of a thrice cursed pattern, indeed. If only he could burn it to ashes. Good fucking riddance.

He opens it instead. He is, after all, the good son. 

It’s more of the same. Always the same. He can nearly hear the sharp scratch of pen against paper, as though he is stood posed in his father’s study while the man finishes writing accounts, ready to deliver a lecture in his most paternal of voices. _I must admit my disappointment on this matter. I had hoped to hear from you again sooner, dear son_ — He reads through it quickly. 

The letter closes with the worst of it: _Expect the next on the second Tuesday of the next moon, brought along with the envoy from the castle, who have been kind enough to allow a messenger of ours to travel alongside theirs. Send your response back with them. I expect there is no reason it should ever get lost with such protection._

 _I do hope you remember what circumstances allow you to attend such an honorable institution, my dear son and heir. Remember the weaknesses in your character and take effort to correct them. I expect to hear favorable news about your studies._

The room looms around him. His chest feels tight—he needs air. The window, damn, if only this place had balconies instead of cloistered dormitories all stone and cramped and horribly stale. How does anyone _breathe_ around here?

The knock on his door comes quiet and polite. For a moment, looking at the opened letter in front of him, he feels a flare of irritation at the thought that Lambert is here, summoned by nothing but the pull of his father’s words, but no—it’s a different knock.

He gets up and opens the door. 

It seems Rodrigue has brought himself here, standing in the doorway with a book tucked under his arm. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I thought maybe we could study together.”

Ambrose’s chest rises with a triumphant breath. “Oh? Just you?”

Rodrigue laughs, a soft thing, and says, “Yes, I suppose so.”

He looks quite vexingly—absent. Ambrose wants to reach out and gather back his attention. He rests his hand lightly on the door frame and smiles his easiest of smiles instead. “How fortunate for us, then, that a pair is enough for studying.”

He steps aside and sweeps his hand with a flourish, beckoning Rodrigue in. Rodrigue steps over the threshold. Ambrose closes the door behind him. The room is still… stifling, but Rodrigue is such an interesting addition to it, he can nearly forgive the dormitories their cramped quarters for a moment. 

“Where _is_ our prince?” he ponders aloud, moving back toward his desk and watching Rodrigue as he continues to stand politely by the door. He offers a smile in return. 

“His Highness is being given extra tutelage in town. I believe it will be every Tuesday now.” 

He pauses. Ambrose leans against his desk and raises an eyebrow.

“I believe,” Rodrigue is talking so carefully, the words measured, “that it’s also intended that we begin to more independently prepare for the roles we will eventually step into. Otherwise I would have...”

“Accompanied him?” Ambrose asks, settling his hand on the desk. The pages of the letter rustle from the displaced air. He looks away. “Yes, it’s quite unusual to see you—severed so.” 

“I must admit,” Rodrigue adds, quieter. Ambrose looks back at him. “It may seem dramatic of me, but I’m a little uneasy.” 

He reaches up to tuck his hair behind his ear. A habit, it seems, one that Ambrose has noticed. 

“Oh,” Rodrigue looks past him, “were you writing correspondence? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Ambrose follows his gaze back down to the letter, his father’s precise script distinctly visible, the words still echoing awfully on the page—his chest tightens. He takes a quick step between Rodrigue and the desk. “No,” he says, abruptly. He brushes it aside with a careless wave, and smiles at Rodrigue. “In fact, it seems I have you to thank for saving me from purgatory once again.” 

“Have I?” Rodrigue muses. The corners of his mouth lift. 

Perhaps something more deserving has come his way on this soured day after all. Rodrigue, without their hapless prince! The faithful companion, today unmoored while the Kingdom’s loyal compatriots try to lecture some sense into Lambert, it seems—and here, he’s shored up in Ambrose’s room. How sweet a thing. 

He looks across the room to his chest and takes mental stock of the liquor he has stashed in it. The bottles there are mostly full—he’s been saving them, somewhat, for an occasion. This, quite clearly, is an _occasion_. 

“Besides,” he says, stepping across the room to the chest with a flourish and a smile, “I believe I have something much better we can do. _Much_ more to my taste on an afternoon like this.” 

“If it’s really not an imposition,” Rodrigue says. He’s still standing just inside the door, with that oddly displaced air about him. Ambrose turns on his heel and gestures for him to sit down on the bed. It’s rather irritating, he thinks, to have Rodrigue stand on ceremony here— _Ambrose_ wouldn’t ask such things of him. 

Rodrigue sits. Much better. 

Ambrose turns back and dips down to unlatch his chest. He quickly selects the bottle he wants—less full than he’d thought, but still a serviceable amount. “Vodka,” he offers as an explanation, holding it up for Rodrigue to see. “The finest—or perhaps, simply the strongest. For us to share.”

“Thank you,” Rodrigue says. He smiles, some of the tension in his posture relaxing. “This reminds me of home.” 

His hair has fallen loose from where he’d tucked it behind his ear. Ambrose’s fingers itch suddenly for something to do. He untwists the top and holds the bottle out, casual in his grasp, to Rodrigue. “And now we’re so far from our lands. Have you wondered at how much free range they give us here? How must they expect us to fill all this time!” 

Rodrigue accepts the offering. Ambrose watches him take a swig from the bottle and watches the way his throat works. He seems surprisingly unfazed by the bite of the alcohol. 

“Almost scandalous,” Ambrose decides. 

“Is it really that much free time?” Rodrigue asks, a note of polite contemplation in his tone. He offers the bottle back to Ambrose. The lip of it is fogged slightly from where his mouth pressed against the glass. Ambrose takes it. 

Tipped to his own mouth, the lip of the bottle is still cool, but the burn of vodka is familiar and settling in his throat. He swallows it down and presents Rodrigue with a look of mock surprise. 

“I would think you would be most aware. After all, doesn’t our dear prince make the most of our free time—and all the rest of it? How _do_ you find time for your education when such allegiances press you to so inconveniently miss lessons?”

Rodrigue laughs. “Perhaps our young minds are challenged at the marketplace as well. And I’ve been studying with Petyr.” His smile softens. “To tell the truth, he reminds me of my own younger brother. It’s rewarding to be of help to him.” 

“Who? Oh—the Galatea heir.” Ambrose shuts and latches the chest and stands up. “Of course. He does seem to hover fretfully around you.”

Rodrigue gives him a mild look. “You don’t seem familiar with many of our classmates.” 

“Should I be? I’m surprised you’ve managed to get very acquainted with them, when most of your time is spent with our prince, and not amongst our peers.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Rodrigue pauses. After a moment, he adds, “it’s been a while since we wrote letters so perhaps it’s presumptuous of me, but I must admit I feel more acquainted with you than anyone else here at the monastery.”

“Excluding Lambert.”

“Well, yes,” he says with a slight frown. “Besides Lambert.” 

Ambrose tilts the bottle back and drinks again, then offers it to Rodrigue. 

Rodrigue drinks before continuing. “I suppose we’ve never really been apart.” He laughs. “Even once when he was injured, a minor thing in the end, but I took all my meals there with him and didn’t leave his room for as long as he was confined. He was ready to climb out the window rather than be sentenced to bed by the second hour, but we made a game of it.” 

“Was it not a nuisance to play nursemaid? Was there not always a dozen nurses at beck and call for worry of the royal bloodline?” Ambrose throws his hands into a grand sweep of the room, to conjure the image of the battalion of the nurses who must’ve been at the royal cub’s bedside on command. He finds it an amusing gesture. 

“I’m sure there was.” Rodrigue says. “Lambert was rarely injured and never ill, so I don’t remember a need.”

“And you?” Ambrose steps easily to the other side of the bed and tosses himself down upon it, stretching casually out on his side, half-reclined toward Rodrigue with his hand propped under his chin. 

“Hm. I suppose I must have gotten ill sometimes, but I only remember once. Somehow—” Rodrigue interrupts himself with a laugh, then continues, “—somehow, Lambert convinced the theatre troupe that was visiting the capital to put on an entire performance of my favorite play for me. In the nursery. With the sets and everything! I think he helped carry the props in himself.” 

Ambrose nonchalantly holds out his free hand, and Rodrigue hands the bottle back. “How exuberant he always was,” he says. He taps his cheek in thought. “I remember you writing of the clumsiness of his crest—and your own misfortune from it.”

“Oh,” Rodrigue says. “Did I write to you of that? I think it must have upset Lambert more than it inconvenienced me. The healers were skilled, and anytime I was injured by accident I healed well. But Lambert would be so careful afterwards, hesitant to touch me and unwilling to roughhouse like usual. That was the part that… I didn’t like.”

Rodrigue shifts, shuffling sideways on his knees until he’s facing Ambrose fully again. He gives an odd little smile. “Anyway, enough about me. I haven’t been in your room before. Lambert mentioned your collection. Insects, I believe? Have you had it for a while?”

“Oh,” Ambrose says, returning the smile with his own pleased one. “Yes! I started the hobby many years ago. I’m very careful; they’re well preserved. There’s a technique to it, you see—every part of it. Rules to follow to not damage the specimen and keep it as perfect as possible. Even in the process of killing it!” He leans further back on his elbow, with just the right air of contemplation. “I prefer a killing jar, with the right fumes, but some species—butterflies, in particular—can be stunned by the right pressure applied to the thorax, beneath the wings, as well.”

Rodrigue glances curiously up at the collection atop the dresser and then looks back at Ambrose. He looks thoughtful as he speaks again. “Do they decay over time? Do you need to preserve them in a certain way?”

The question! It seems Rodrigue has a knack for this. How nice it is to share it with someone! And Rodrigue is clearly interested in learning more. 

“Most of the hard bodied insects can be preserved dry. But alcohol is also an excellent preservative.” He holds up the bottle further and shoots a conspiratorial grin in Rodrigue’s direction. “There are special alcohols for the preservation of insects, but a strong spirit like this does the trick, if necessary.”

“That seems like a helpful coincidence.” Rodrigue shares in the grin, and accepts the bottle as he offers it back. He takes a slower sip and then hands it back. Ambrose points towards the collection with the lip of the bottle. 

“Then, once I’ve caught and immobilized a specimen, it must be carefully pinned into place until it finishes drying out. Exactly the right pose! Did you know, the thorax hardens around the pin as it dries and keeps it fully secured on its own. All the other pins can be removed and it’ll stay just as you’d want it displayed. But it’s quite fragile and brittle by that point, nearly impossible to manipulate or correct. Very delicate work!” 

“It must take a lot of skill,” Rodrigue says. “It would be interesting to watch.”

Ambrose smiles. “Perhaps we can go on a search for insects to add to the collection together. ”

Rodrigue is still smiling back. “I think that would be nice. I’d like to spend more time with you.” He looks thoughtful again. “Do you worry about any of them being damaged?”

“Not here in my room. The prince isn’t about to come barging in, now, is he?”

Rodrigue gives him a side glance, but it’s without much reproach. “No, I suppose not,” he says, softly. “He’s a village away, until late.”

“So it’s just us,” Ambrose says. “The collection remains safe.”

Rodrigue laughs. He reaches for the bottle. His hand brushes Ambrose as he takes it and downs a more substantial swallow. 

Ambrose takes it back. 

He cannot be imagining the heat in the room, can he? He’s warm. Rodrigue must be too.

His elbow almost slips from beneath him as he shifts, the bedspread rustling at the movement, and he quickly reorients himself to stop the bottle from spilling. Rodrigue is curved toward him, closer now. Inexplicably, Ambrose thinks of the garland Lambert must have given him. What did Rodrigue do with it? Was it crumpled and crushed like the others had been? Did he think on how careless their royal cub is, seeing it so?

Was their perfect duo suddenly not so perfect? 

And now Rodrigue has brought himself here, seeking Ambrose’s company. What would their dear prince think?

“ _You_ would like to become more intimately acquainted, wouldn’t you?”

Rodrigue looks at him, hint of a flush on his cheeks. The alcohol or—Ambrose burns with a rush of satisfaction. He’s right, he must be right. 

Rodrigue says once again, simply, “I think that would be nice.”

Ambrose draws himself back up, the mattress dipping under the weight of his hand. Rodrigue is so close. He can see the rings of color in his eyes, darkest at the outside, all so blue. His lips are chapped, and there’s a tender spot where he must have worried at his lip with his teeth. Ambrose pulls his gaze back up. Rodrigue’s watching him. His lips part. 

Ambrose _must_ be right—

His hand stumbles over Rodrigue’s knee before he can right it as he leans forward to press his mouth against that worry spot at Rodrigue’s lip. Rodrigue meets him.

Rodrigue’s hand settles on his arm, a whisper of fabric in the quiet room as his fingers stroke across his sleeve in a gentle rhythm. Ambrose reaches up to finally tangle his fingers in Rodrigue’s hair, to pull him even closer—he doesn’t want to move back to catch his breath, doesn’t want to do anything but keep pressing his lips harder against Rodrigue’s. Rodrigue’s fingers clutch at his arm. 

The room stays so still and undisturbed, no footsteps to interrupt them with Ambrose’s dorm tucked away here at the end of the hall. Rodrigue makes a noise in the back of his throat and Ambrose finally breaks from him, his attention immediately caught by the strands of hair still between his fingers, by the rising flush on Rodrigue’s cheeks. 

He was right, he thinks. Satisfaction and pride blooms warm in his chest. He runs his thumb across the dark strands of hair in his grasp. His head feels a little clouded by the drink, but no matter. He was right! And yet, there was something he was surely supposed to be—ah, right, of course. Their dear prince. Whatever would their dear prince think? 

“Have you ever been this—acquainted?” Ambrose asks. Rodrigue’s hair is very soft.

“No,” Rodrigue says. He’s looking at Ambrose. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Ambrose lies. He feels so warm. Rodrigue has never done this. Rodrigue has never done this with anyone but _him_. 

He wants to—he breaks away from holding Rodrigue’s gaze, to relocate the bottle that he’d set aside. He takes a long drink and regards the bottle. It’s almost empty. 

“The last of this fine vodka, of course,” he declares, very grandly, “is for you. After all, you’re a guest here. My room is all ours to enjoy.” 

“You’re a very kind host,” Rodrigue says, sharing in his smile. 

His hand falls away from Ambrose’s arm. He takes the bottle when Ambrose offers it to him, and Ambrose watches him swallow, from so close a view this time, watching how his throat moves as he finishes the last of it. He reaches up as Rodrigue sets the bottle aside, empty now, and touches the side of his neck against the curve of his collar. He wants, suddenly, to undo every clasp and button of that nuisance of a uniform. 

Rodrigue kisses him. A second time. 

As Ambrose kisses back, Rodrigue sighs against his mouth, lips parting, his hand coming up to settle warm and present against the side of Ambrose’s face. Ambrose absently runs his fingers along the edge of Rodrigue’s collar, distracted by the press of his lips. It’s—so pleasant. When he pushes closer, wanting to taste him, his tongue eager and seeking, he finds he can chase after the last traces of the alcohol in Rodrigue’s mouth. 

He’s caught on the taste and the way Rodrigue reciprocates, barely noticing the light feeling of fingers trailing up his arm and into his hair until suddenly there’s a sharp tug against his scalp—Rodrigue’s hand tangled in his braid. Rodrigue laughs against his mouth with a warm puff of air. He pulls back—the unhappiest of partings, his attention diverted now to the work of freeing his fingers, forehead creased in concentration.

Ambrose runs his fingers down from Rodrigue’s collar to the top of his vest. He could undo it. There’s a flush at Rodrigue’s neck that disappears beneath his collar; it must continue to bloom further across his skin. He wants to see it. He places his hands at the fastening of Rodrigue’s vest. Rodrigue doesn’t stop him. 

His fingers fumble frustratingly on the small hook and eye clasp, the same sort he’s surely fastened and unfastened on his own vest too many times to count, and yet this one seems a nuisance. Rodrigue laughs softly again, and his fingertips brush the back of Ambrose’s knuckles as he tries to help. Each clasp becomes a skirmish to undo, but finally they emerge victorious, and Ambrose is free to slip the vest from Rodrigue’s shoulders and help him out of it.

He settles his hands against the top button of Rodrigue’s shirt. Rodrigue reaches up and touches the back of his hand, his fingers sure against his skin. He leans forward and kisses Ambrose. Ambrose wants to keep the taste. 

Rodrigue’s shirt buttons are another battle, one aided and distracted in turn by their mouths pressed together. Ambrose loses track of how long it takes to undo them. Finally, and still too soon, he draws away, the last button undone, a new stretch of Rodrigue’s skin laid bare from his neck to his navel. That flush blooms all the way down his chest. 

Rodrigue reaches out and runs curious hands up Ambrose’s sides, his palms coming to pause against the embroidered front of Ambrose’s vest. “May I?” he asks. 

He looks at Ambrose, and Ambrose can’t quite place his expression, distracted by the present and lingering way Rodrigue’s palms press against his chest as he breathes in. “Yes,” he says. 

Rodrigue’s fingers shift and begin to work at unfastening his vest, and it’s strange to see someone else’s hands do this work—do it in reverse, with such careful consideration even in their occasional fumble. The room has gotten so warm. Once he’s undone every fastening, Rodrigue slides the vest from his shoulders, the brush of his hands against shirt sleeves leaving new trails of sensation down Ambrose’s arms. 

Rodrigue reaches to pull the bottom of Ambrose’s shirt from his trousers and pauses, fingers hovering over his lap. Ambrose feels his face grow hot. He’s obviously—not unfond of the happenings. It must be obvious to Rodrigue as well. Rodrigue brushes his fingers against Ambrose’s top trouser button and looks up at him. “May I?” he repeats, something curious in his tone. 

Ambrose assents, careful to seem unaffected. Rodrigue’s fingers work at the closure of his trousers, sure if unsteady—and then, so suddenly, he’s freed him and wrapped a warm, calloused hand around Ambrose. His breath hitches. 

Rodrigue’s hand. He wants to memorize exactly how it feels. He wants to trace every bit of sensation back to the pads of Rodrigue’s fingertips, the width of his palm, all the rough details of his hand now pressed to such—sensitive skin. Rodrigue’s eyes are lowered and focused. He has such dark eyelashes. 

The pressure builds. Rodrigue’s hand on him, the way it moves, the jolt of sensation as his fingers run along the head—his focus narrows to this. The warm, warm feeling spreading through his body, the heat of Rodrigue so close, the way his mouth still looks now, after being kissed. That skin exposed at his chest, flushed pink. The pressure builds. 

“Oh—” Ambrose starts, tempted to say—what was it?—he loses his train of thought. Rodrigue’s hand is so clever. Has he touched himself like this before? He must have. He’d like to see it. He’d like to—he breathes in, stuttered breath—touch him. 

“Is this okay?” Rodrigue asks. Ambrose doesn’t want to speak to answer—doesn’t want to risk it. He dips his head forward, his forehead brushing against Rodrigue’s shoulder. Rodrigue’s hand pauses, and then continues moving, so distinctly. His other hand reaches up and touches the back of Ambrose’s head, an unfamiliar embrace, and he is so close and so overwhelmingly—Rodrigue. Ambrose is so warm. He cannot help but let go. 

Burning, pleasant heat curls through him, around him, too impossibly vast to contain, and he cries out in the rush of it. Rodrigue’s hands guide him through it. For a moment, the world is only this. 

When the world returns, it’s slowly, expanding out only to the length of his room. Rodrigue’s quiet breathing nearby, his own—it must be his own—louder, but somehow distant. The vodka they shared must be what’s left him feeling quite so leisurely, he thinks, enjoying the sensation of fabric beneath his fingers as he idly touches the hem of Rodrigue’s shirt. He draws back and smiles. How simple it was, in the end, to have Rodrigue here with him. And Rodrigue—

Rodrigue is looking down, his brow slightly furrowed. 

Ambrose freezes. Everything slips into focus. Suddenly he’s so very aware of the sweat he can feel gathering clammy and uncomfortable and awful against his skin, the way he must’ve sounded, the way his limbs are fighting him as he tries to pull them in neatly and properly, how Rodrigue must have seen it all. He reaches up to touch his braid and it’s a mess pulled half free of its plait—how it must look, how he didn’t think to fucking care! And now, even more disgraceful, the mess on his clothes. 

On Rodrigue’s hand. 

How disgusting he must think him. Ambrose burns with the knowledge of it, hurrying to fix his trousers. He looks away, his eyes landing on the pitiful heap of his vest cast aside on the bed, and he rushes to retrieve it. His fingers are damnably clumsy as he does up the buttons, but each one fastened properly into place is another piece righted. The familiar fit of the closed vest eases the suffocating constriction he feels. He breathes. 

“Ambrose?” 

Rodrigue. 

Ambrose, carefully composed, looks back at him. 

Rodrigue has moved in those long moments. He’s standing now with his vest clutched to his chest, his shirt still unbuttoned, a slight step away from the bed. There’s something in the way he’s hovering, so politely distanced, that Ambrose suddenly can’t stand.

He wants Rodrigue to sit back down. 

“I suppose I should be going?” Rodrigue offers. A pause. “Are we...” He hesitates. “I wouldn’t want to overstay, if—” 

Ambrose catches him by the wrist, interrupting him, and quickly tugs Rodrigue back to stand before him. Rodrigue goes easily, one hand caught in Ambrose’s grasp and the other holding his vest—Rodrigue must have wiped his fingers off, Ambrose realizes, the thought uncurling unpleasant and unbidden. He keeps his smile light and easy. 

Rodrigue shifts. Ambrose follows the movement down. Ah. Rodrigue’s—predicament is quite visible. _That’s_ much more interesting to take note of. And perhaps, Ambrose could help in—remedying it. 

“What kind of host would one be,” Ambrose says, tasting the words and enjoying the way they roll elegant and compelling off his tongue, “if one didn’t return the favor?”

“I’m sorry,” Rodrigue says. “Did I misinterpret..?”

“Come, sit.” Ambrose lets go of Rodrigue’s wrist and gestures widely, with all the graciousness becoming of a host, for him to sit back on the bed. As Rodrigue moves to sit, Ambrose reaches up to the tangle of his own braid and begins the work of undoing it, running his fingers through until it’s a neat cascade of loose hair instead of the mess it had become. Rodrigue watches him. 

Ambrose smiles, settling into the rightness of this. Yes, he thinks. Rodrigue _is_ a guest. It would be so improper, of course, not to attend to him. 

“To be honest, I was going to thank you,” Rodrigue admits, with a hint of a self-conscious laugh. “Is that what you’re supposed to do in these circumstances? I’m not sure. But it was…” He swallows. Ambrose watches the movement of it, and the way Rodrigue ducks his head down as he continues, “...very nice. Thank you. I—” 

His words are cut off as Ambrose leans in to taste the skin beneath his jaw—his lips pressed to his throat, Ambrose can feel the reverberation of the hum Rodrigue lets out. Ambrose reaches for him. His fingers touch fabric—Rodrigue’s vest, still clutched to his chest, he remembers with a flare of annoyance. It slips easily from Rodrigue’s grasp when he tugs at it, and Ambrose casts it aside without care to where it lands. 

The skin at Rodrigue’s chest is warm beneath his fingers. His other hand goes seeking for the soft hair at the nape of Rodrigue’s neck, and he tangles his fingers in it and—pulls. Rodrigue’s head tips back and he makes the most interesting noise, one that Ambrose wants to capture and keep. 

He presses his mouth, insistent and hungry, up to the stretch of skin at Rodrigue’s throat newly bared. Rodrigue’s hands reach up to rest on his arms, his fingers digging in and relaxing as Ambrose tugs his hair again, just slightly, to get him to tilt his head further back. 

“Ah,” Rodrigue breathes out. He laughs, something short and warmly surprised. His hands drift farther down Ambrose’s arms, grasping gently at his elbows. 

Ambrose enjoys this—the sounds Rodrigue is making, so close to his ear, in response to what he’s doing. How intriguing and pleasant, that _he_ can make Rodrigue respond in such an interesting way. What else can Ambrose draw from him, like this? What does Rodrigue wish for?

Heat burns low in him at the question. He crowds closer to Rodrigue, wanting—more, mouthing down his neck to the juncture of his collarbone and sucking at the skin there. It draws another noise to keep from Rodrigue, who shifts, his knee knocking against Ambrose’s as he draws his leg up on the bed. Ambrose releases his hold on his hair in surprise. 

There’s a sudden shift in momentum, Rodrigue’s hands pressing down on his arms as he climbs over him, a jolt of pain as something—his knee, must have been—connects abruptly with Ambrose’s stomach. It’s a momentary distraction, forgotten as solid weight settles warm and present against him. Rodrigue has settled in his lap. His knees are tucked in so close around Ambrose’s thighs.

Rodrigue kisses him. He drapes his arms around Ambrose’s neck, drawing closer, and Ambrose trails his fingers between his shoulder blades and back through the fine hairs at the nape of Rodrigue’s neck. He can feel the way Rodrigue shivers into it, and he’s nearly distracted from the kiss—all of this, Rodrigue _here_ , so close, is so—captivating. 

He doesn’t notice at first, all his attention caught and narrowed, that Rodrigue is shifting and rocking against him, that he’s panting into his mouth now more often than kissing, that his hand has fallen down to grip Ambrose’s arm in a sort of leverage. How hard he is, seeking friction against him. Heat creeps further up Ambrose’s spine at the realization. 

Rodrigue seems—caught on instinct, perhaps, so unabashed in this. 

He breaks off the kiss, panting against Ambrose’s mouth. Every breath stuttered and staccato, all warm and damp and heated in time with the shift of his hips until suddenly he sharply breathes in and—holds it. Ambrose runs hands in fascination down his sides, watches him shudder through the release, kisses his slack mouth and tastes the reverberation of his moan. 

It’s for him to keep. 

Rodrigue collapses heavy and loose-limbed against him. His breathing evens out until Ambrose wonders for a moment if he has somehow, impossibly, fallen asleep.

“Rodrigue?” Ambrose questions, a bit—surprised.

Rodrigue makes a light, barely intelligible noise in response, moving only slightly to reach up and clasp his fingers warmly around Ambrose’s arm. Ambrose can hear the pounding of Rodrigue’s heart, loud in his ears—no, it must be his own heart. Rodrigue is so settled. 

So comfortably relaxed. He can feel how his chest rises and falls with each breath. Ambrose touches the back of his head and watches strands of Rodrigue’s hair slip through his fingers. This is—pleasant. All the heat burning under his skin replaced with—something. 

Through his dorm windows, the sunlight is starting to turn orange with the approaching dusk. Ambrose watches the way it stretches shadows and light across the floor, across the bed, across Rodrigue. Here, with him. Just them in this room. The pounding in his ears lessens. 

Rodrigue shifts and huffs out a soft laugh as he lifts his head, near to Ambrose’s ear. “Sorry.” His voice is low and warm. “I’m always drowsy after that.”

Ambrose looks down. There’s a damp spot at the front of Rodrigue’s trousers, and his face and chest are still pink and flushed. What an effect all of this has on Rodrigue. How interesting, that he could draw such a state from him. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he says, pitching the words airily. “How very impolite it would’ve been not to see you attended to.”

“A good host,” Rodrigue says, a new hint of a blush rising on his cheeks, his voice still drowsy and slow. He sits back. “I’m afraid I might… need to return to my room to change.” 

“Would you like a pair of trousers, to—remedy the situation?” Ambrose offers, quickly. “We are in my room, after all. I can retrieve a pair for you.”

“Ah, thank you,” Rodrigue says. “But… I think I really should get going. I don’t know when Lambert’s supposed to...” He steadies himself with a hand on Ambrose’s shoulder, and starts to push off from Ambrose’s lap, getting to his feet a bit clumsily. Ambrose watches him reorient himself. 

There is a darkening mark at the juncture of Rodrigue’s neck and collarbone, coaxed there by Ambrose’s mouth earlier. It’s interesting. 

“I think…” Rodrigue is repeating, pausing as he tilts his chin down to look at his hands, in the process of trying to button up his shirt. Ambrose’s fingers itch to replace his. He turns away, suddenly wanting another drink, and remembers a beat too late that they’ve emptied the bottle. No matter—he has more in the chest. 

“I would… prefer not to say anything to Lambert,” Rodrigue continues. Ambrose looks back to him. He’s frowning down at the buttons in concentration as he does them up. “Not… right now.” 

“Ah,” Ambrose says. He watches the bruise disappear under Rodrigue’s shirt. A mark he’s left on him—one Lambert will be none the wiser to, clueless to how things have changed in this brief time he’s been away. How nice a thought that is. “Of course. It can be our secret.”

Rodrigue smiles at him, the last of his buttons done up. He leans close over Ambrose, reaching for something across the bed, and Ambrose reaches up without much thought to touch his collar with a brush of his fingertips. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay,” he adds, lightly, “and have another drink? I do keep that chest well stocked with—all the necessaries to preserve my collection. Obviously.”

Rodrigue laughs. He leans back, his vest in his hand, and shakes his head, still smiling. “I really should be going. Thank you for the generous offer, though. It’s very kind.”

“Of course,” Ambrose stands up, as Rodrigue moves back. He grabs the empty vodka bottle and moves to set it on his desk. “You are my guest.” 

At the door, the slight flush still on his cheeks is bathed warmer by the glow of the sun setting through the solid stone windows, Rodrigue looks at him. “I liked... this,” he stops for a beat, and his expression softens. “It was nice.”

For a moment, his posture shifts and Ambrose is sure he’s going to take a step back. He waits, angled toward Rodrigue, careful to keep his expression casual and composed. Rodrigue’s smile turns sheepish. “I really do need to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ambrose, in class?”

“If you show up,” Ambrose says, absently.

Rodrigue pauses. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, quieter, he says, “I’ll see you, Ambrose.”

The door shuts behind him. His footsteps must fall softly, because Ambrose can’t hear any hint of him making his way back down the hall to his own room. Just silence, and then the sound of his own fingers tapping against the desk—he looks down, bemused, and his eyes land on the empty bottle. And next to it, the letter. 

Another drink first, he thinks. 

It’s fallen dark by the time he’s completed the unpleasant task of re-reading the letter. It sits next to the lit candle on his desk, the acrid scent of his magic still lingering in the air. He’s suitably prepared to write a reply now, he has decided. 

After all, he has such news for his dear father. Ambrose smiles and tips his pen to the fresh page of parchment. 

_Dear Father,_

_The professors here are sufficiently impressed with my studies, and I have no reason to doubt their assessment. Classes are well-prepared and informative. You will be pleased to note the buildings are still as grand and the Officer’s Academy still as rigorous as you remembered it._

_I have made the most advantageous of connections here, as you have always urged me to do. He is just as devoted to improving his education, and we have, in fact, have enlightened ourselves to new topics over the course of this very afternoon. I’m sure you will be extremely pleased to hear it._

He grins down at the page. Extremely fucking pleased! It’s rare to hold such a secret over his father. He takes another drink from the bottle and the alcohol burns sharp and satisfying down his throat. 

_I imagine we will stay well-acquainted for many years to come._

And this time, he thinks, staring at the lettering that swims before him on the parchment, the shadows of the candle’s flame flickering. This time—there is nothing his father can do about it. 

Good riddance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to so many people I’ve yelled at about writing this at one point or another, thank you all!! Now, on to working on …a chapter 1 coda. (It’s really a whole ‘nother chapter. How _did_ this happen.) 
> 
> This chapter now has art of the first tryst scene, which you can check out [here on twitter](https://twitter.com/amorekays/status/1327003393580122113). It absolutely delights me. 
> 
> You can learn more about the affectionately and joke-reference named Jock Cinematic Universe (JCU) in [this moment](https://twitter.com/i/events/1195471121732243456?s=13) at twitter that has a lot of extra goodies in it! 
> 
> My own twitter is @[here](https://twitter.com/amorekays)!


End file.
